


Pimperium of Man

by UnderTheFridge



Series: The Pimperium of Mankind AU [1]
Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Adult Content, Erotica, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Other, Parody, Porn With Plot, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, that's it that's the au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-10 07:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11122611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.And reasonably-priced erotica starring humanity's favourite genehanced demi-gods.- You know, to finance all the endless war.(a.k.a. The Emperor's Best Idea Ever.)





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of fics from a long-running joke that not only refused to die, but evolved into its own AU with no respect for canon past or present (and tongue firmly in cheek).
> 
> Other writers have contributed, through the years - you know who you are, and if you're interested, let me know and I'll make it into a series to link it all together....

"Father, I must tell you something! I fear that Horus and Sanguinius are engaged in… something that goes beyond mere fraternal affection!"

"I know, Dorn, I know."

"You... know?"

"Yes. I've been secretly filming them for months and putting it on the data-stream. Don't look at me like that, Rogal, it's good for morale. Look, if you go here – had to buy the domain but it was worth it – you can see, here.... Where are you going? There's no point telling Magnus, he bumped it for me.700 billion views!"

“Only 700 billion, my lord?”

"Well, it's only been up for a few hours and intergalactic data transmission takes time...

It'll be faster once I've completed my psychic highway thing. Oh, did I tell you about that? Magnus is helping me, because I promised not to share those pictures of him making out with a pyramid when he was drunk at New Year’s.

Malc, how are we doing with the posters? Are they glossy? Let me see one... yeah, that's fine. I like the angle you got there, you should go pro.... Is that baby oil? Hm, I never knew Roboute would scrub up so well. Two hundred thousand orders, you say? And are they _all_ Ultramarines?

Never mind, I have to do this book thing. Yeah, the lady’s here with her servitor. Get those shipped out.”

**_'Imperium of Manwhores: A Tell-All Memoir from the Emperor.'_ **

“Yeah, so – is that on? Good. You mind if I smoke? Well, Ruler of Mankind, I know, but it’s polite to ask. Ahem.

You see, the perpetual war has to be funded somehow. Now the Eldar, they inherited everything. Craftworlds, superior tech, those slinky outfits – all just handed to them on a _plate._ At the bargain price of a few spiky maniacs and a new Chaos God. What? Chaos God? Malc, is that stuff still classified? It is? Shit, forget I said that then. Or I could go in there and wipe the last five minutes… you’re ok? Fantastic.

And those blue guys, the Tau, well; they’ve got their Greater Good, those Kroot things to do all the _real_ work, and a neat little side-line in interior design and takeaway food. I love Tau stuff, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t fill you up. You’re hungry again really quickly – and some of their places don’t even deliver inside the Imperium. Or there’s massive charges, I mean, it’s not even out of their way – at least in some subsectors….

Where was I?

Ah yes. And the Tyrannids – they just barge in and _devour_. It’s all take, no give. Highly irresponsible in today’s galaxy.

So, I had a great idea….”

_The Emperor of Mankind (honoured be His name) is now the owner of humanity’s – and perhaps the galaxy’s – largest adult entertainment distribution franchise. Its data archives cover the major landmasses of an entire star system. And rumour has it that the curators, tech-priests of Mars who minister to this immense collection, undergo the Rite of Pure Thought, thus remaining immune to the content they see (and therefore escaping pay-per-view charges)._

“…that’s just it with the remembrancers. They’re perfect for the job. I mean, we take humanity’s most talented artists, authors and artisans and send them to the frontiers of the Imperium – and for what? Landscapes and fully-clothed statues. Symphonies and banners. Nice if you’re into that – but I tell you, my friend, it doesn’t pay the bills.

So I said to him – ‘I know, it's a fantastic portrait - it captures the nobility and strength of the warrior, the tranquillity of the scholar and the confidence of the leader. All I'm saying is - can he be naked? Because I think he should be naked.’

And he was awed by my splendour, aura of the divine, etc. etc. So that’s how I got that. We estimate that seventy-eight per cent of the human population has a copy. And eleven per cent has more than one copy. And five per cent… well, I won’t go into that. But suffice to say, it’s a success.”

_His illustrious sons, the Primarchs of the Legiones Astartes, know little of this venture (with a few exceptions)._

“Once I realised how well it was working – and I mean _well_ , we were raking it in - I tried to institute a system whereby only the most handsome Astartes would rise through the ranks, thus providing a steady supply of officers who could plausibly be called to, you know, ‘duties’ outside the Legion. It never caught on. Except with the Emperor's Children, obviously.

I sort of wish I'd chosen a different name now. Makes me sound like a bit of a paedo. They’re not even my children. Well, they are – grandkids, I suppose. But only in the cloning-gene-seed-whatever kind of way, not the actual familial way.

What? Well, if you do buy into that bullshit of all of humanity being my ‘children’, then sure. But let me tell you, I’ve got enough kids as it is. No, more than eighteen. _Hundreds._ Maybe even thousands. I forget. They only ever call when they want money….

What is it, Malc?

Ah, Lorgar’s in the shower. Live feed, you know. I got the stream up and running yesterday, _finally._ These Mechanicus types might worship me as a god, doesn’t mean they’re good listeners. Honestly!

Yes, that is one of my works he’s quoting while…. They inspire a lot of things, you know. Boy takes after me more than I thought, he’s – ah. You see, that’s where we differ. Stamina. What do you mean, TMI? Eh, toughen up Malc. Otherwise you’ll never make it in this business. Go on son, have another go. It’s the Steamy Scenes _Hour_ , warp damn it. Not the _five minutes_.

Oh, are the twins here?”

_Recently discovered twin primarchs, Alpharius and Omegon, are two who have access to this clandestine business. Their exact roles remain unclear._

“Yeah, they can walk in – like they don’t know anything. Do what? If they want. Well, it’s his fault… I’m not about to let my viewers down.

What about Russ? Oh sweet holy Terra – Malc, you have to see this! Look, he’s humping the Titan’s leg! Oh, this is priceless….

Yeah, the Wolves have their own niche. And I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not that. The Imperium of Man does not condone bestiality. That’s why it’s the Imperium of _Man_. And _Woman_ , of course. They’re all humans, is the point.

No, it’s not that ‘furry’ thing either… although…. Hmm….

All I’m saying is – convincing Leman to wrestle his officers in a bath of mead while buxom topless wenches cheer them on was a masterstroke, if I do say so myself. ‘ _Wolves On Heat_ ’ is one of our bestsellers. Just behind ‘ _Orbital Bombardment_ _II_ ’.

Is Rogal still here? Well, call him back then. I have another idea.”

_Few others ever see the business that sponsors the glorious Great Crusades of Mankind’s leader. Magnus, one of the most powerful Psykers in the galaxy, is said to be able to read the etheric currents, and determine which of humanity’s hungers should be addressed next. I caught up with his latest project via a psy-shielded two-way mirror in his private quarters._

“My Lord, there seems to be a disturbance in the Warp… as though billions upon billions of mortal souls cried out in delight as I removed my robe.”

“You are, ah, very perceptive.”

+Magnus, think of the webway. You want safe passage through the Empyrean, don’t you?+

“But you might be imagining things.”

“Are you sure, my lord? Didn’t you feel it too? Your gift extends far beyond any of our -.”

“No, it’s fine. Now pants off, Hathor, and face the… mirror. The, er, mirror.”

“Do the servitors have to be here?”

“They’re brain-dead, fixed in their patterns. It would take too much effort to move them elsewhere – I’m sure you can ignore them.”

“And the one with the red light?”

“Is… charging.”

“Very well. Where do you want me?”

+Magnus, this had better not be that cop-out mind-sex business, you know that’s bad for viewing figures…+

+I promise this will be entirely physical. And please stop talking. You’re killing the mood.+

_As the boundaries of the Imperium grow ever wider, it becomes increasingly important to maintain the standards of what is provided to its citizens. A ruler has to know what the people want – and with His intimate knowledge of every human soul, the Emperor always knows what the people want._

“You know, I was thinking of renaming it the ‘Pimperial’ Palace. Everyone loves a bad pun, it creates a friendly atmosphere. It’s about _acknowledging_ that the joke is bad; it makes people feel connected. Plus, this place is ‘blinged out’, as I believe the youngsters say nowadays.

You see this throne?” *clang* “Real gold, all of it. One hundred per cent. You know how I pay for that? Rogal, you know, don’t you? Of course you do.

And your honour guard still want those new Tactical Dreadnought suits?

Well then, get in the jelly pool.

You have to be harsh but fair, you see. There’s no point letting things slip. Quality over quantity, that’s what I always say. Don’t I, Malc? Yes, yes I do.

I think we can start rolling on ‘ _Imperial Fisting_ ’. Dorn, you ready? Yeah, he’s ready.”


	2. Chapter 2

“So you see, there’s room for plot. There has to be, you know, otherwise people lose interest – and when they lose interest, you lose sales. Even better if you can spin it out, give them bits and pieces, make them cry for more.

Speaking of which – Lorgar? Great job. You almost had me _believe_ you’re a wanton slut who takes it from anyone instead of a noble figurehead of the greatest fighting force in the galaxy.

What? No, it _is_ a compliment. Backhanded? No.

Fine, have it your way.

Ok. Yeah, I suppose that can stay in. I’ve got a business to run; you’re not going to get me to sit down and reel off an account of my long and illustrious career without some interruptions.

So, like I was saying, bits and pieces. New content balanced with sequels – and re-releases, why not? If they’ll pay for it once, they’ll pay for it twice with some shiny bits….”

_The Imperial Palace, a glorious monument to the achievements of humanity, plays temporary home to a huge amount of material. The first editions of everything that is published are shipped out from here, inspected personally by the Emperor Himself._

“Well, the archives are out-of-system, yes, but they’re for storage. One copy, maybe two, of everything that’s made. You can’t access them without some high-level clear- oh, who am I kidding? You can’t access them unless you’re me, Malc, Custodian, Sororitas or primarch. Hell, even some of them aren’t allowed in. After what happened with Angron… the mess….

Anyway.

Actually, Angron’s an interesting case in point. We’ve discovered that the little… problem he has… - wait, you people think that primarchs are perfect, don’t you? Yeah. Ok – let’s just say that I’ve retired him from military command and put his talents to… other uses. And it lets me keep an eye on him, keep him close. And now I think I’m on the way to a cure.

No, he doesn’t have a disease exactly, it’s – complicated.

But it’s doing him good.

And _World Eaters Eat Out_ is pretty popular, I have to say. It’s at twelfth, behind _Khan Rides Again_.

That is, my son Jaghatai. That Khan. Yes, they sound similar. That’s not my fault. Humans aren’t imaginative with their naming at all; they can’t see beyond the latest fashionable title to bestow on your offspring. Do you have any idea how many ‘Horus’s there are on Cthonia? Incredibly confusing – there’s even one in the Mournival….

Malc!

Idea – Horus and Little Horus. No, not that ‘little Horus’; I know he calls it that. I’ve heard him address it directly, would you believe. No, Aximand.

I don’t know – maybe _Like Father, like Son._ Or we could add it to the _Whoremaster_ series.

Well, if you think of a better title, you tell me. I’m the one with an Imperium to run, you can sit back scratching your arse and reading _Sleepovers with Sisters…._ ”


	3. 14th of February M31.001

“ _Celebrate the martyrdom of an ancient saint by rubbing your squishy parts together?_ ”

“I… don’t think that’s the angle we’re looking for, my lord.”

“Ok. _On this day, you are obliged to seek out another human for romantic partnership, by order of the Emperor_?”

“I still don’t think it’s hitting the right spot,” Malcador said with resigned honesty.

The Emperor groaned and ran a hand over his face.

“What about _Cling together out of sexual desperation to briefly forget your insignificance in the cold wastes of the galaxy_?”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

“Fine,” the Emperor conceded. “More coffee!”

\----

“I understand the message, Father – but what about the outfit?”

“Well, you see, this has myriad theological backgrounds, from pagan fertility worship to the Hellenic and Roman minor gods, their adoption through the classical world and the later Christian motifs of angelic spirits with -.”

“He’s saying you look hot in that little dress,” Horus interrupted. “So get up there.”

“I still don’t quite understand,” Sanguinius said, brandishing the bow.

“You don’t need to understand, San. Stop waving that thing around, you could hurt someone.”

“I thought that was the idea. I see those about to fall in love and shoot them to -.”

“No, no,” the Emperor told him, “you shoot them _so_ they fall in love. Your arrows have magic powers.”

“Magic powers? Don’t I kill them?”

“No, the arrows are _metaphorical_ , a representation of being struck by feelings of desire and – look, just do what I tell you, alright?”

“Yes, Father.”

“So she comes in, then she comes in, you shoot them, they start shagging on the sofa. Then the husband comes back, you shoot him, he falls for both of them, things go from there.”

“And then?”

“Then you shoot Horus….”

“I don’t want to hurt Horus.”

“You won’t. You decide to follow him to see where he ends up, snag your finger on one of the arrows, he turns around, and boom!”

“Do we get to join the threesome?” Horus asked hopefully.

“No. I won’t have you squashing the humans. You two can get it on any way you want.”

“Does he still have to wear the dress?”

“It’s not a dress, Horus – but yes, that would be preferable. Cupid is supposed to be a sweet little cherub-thing, or a young man in the earlier mythology, not a ten-foot-high avatar of war and death with rippling muscles….”

Sanguinius looked at the floor, twirling an arrow in one hand.

“… especially if some of those muscles are in entirely the wrong place to be attractive to anything but birds….”

“Don’t worry,” Horus murmured, putting an arm around his beloved, “he doesn’t mean that. Lots of people find you attractive. I know I do.”

“Thank you,” Sanguinius smiled at him, and they moved easily into each other’s embrace.

“Not yet!” came the cry from the edge of the set, “Wait until we’ve got the humans going!”

Horus sighed.

\----

“Ancient records state that this festival was marked by the exchange of gifts,” Malcador wiped away a bead of sweat, which wasn’t due to the heat in the forge, “most commonly those with romantic associations – so valuable trinkets, flowers, heart-shaped objects… and chocolate.”

“Still,” Vulkan glowered at him, arms folded, “I don’t think it’s particularly tactful.”

“But humans have always had a -.”

“I refuse to be categorised based on the colour of my skin.”

“What?” Malcador stared. “What? No, nobody’s doing that to you! Oh dear Terra, you’ve misunderstood….”

The primarch’s torso rose before him, an unyielding wall of power. He was very aware of the hammer Vulkan carried in one giant fist.

“We just want you – and a few of your brothers – to… well, the final details haven’t been _fleshed out_ , so to speak, but – with a chocolate fountain. You know, the actual foodstuff.”

Vulkan raised an eyebrow.

“It has nothing to do with you personally.”

The burning coals of his eyes regarded Malcador for seconds that felt like hours.

“Alright.”

The Sigillite let out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding.

“Do we get to eat the chocolate?”

“Ah, you’ll probably have to do any eating _before_ you get started. And your father wants you to bring some of those tiny marshmallows.”

\----

“This,” Lion smacked the sheaf of paper down onto the table. “ _This_ is the problem.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Russ inquired, scratching the ears of a wolf.

“Haven’t you read the script?”

“No. I can’t occupy myself with those things.”

“You mean you can’t read?”

“I can read, brother. I just don’t see the need to. It’s simple. We have sex.”

Lion’s lip curled slightly, a sign of irrepressible rage.

“It’s called _A Thorn in My Side_.”

“And?”

“We fight, reconcile, and make love on a bed of roses,” the knight snarled.

Russ chuckled heartily. “Who’s on top?”

“Is that relevant?”

“Depends on which part of the roses they’re using,” Russ grinned at him. “Otherwise, one of us might feel a little prick….”

“So you _have_ read it!”

\----

A servitor trundled over with a tray, and the Emperor took his head off the table for long enough to pick up a mug.

“Why did I even reinstate this quasi-religious waste of time? It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Because of the sales. Religious or not, it’s a day where you remind everyone that however much they’re getting, it’s not enough. And we rake it in.”

“That’s right, Malc. I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

“And I’m grateful, my lord.”

“Say, do you want to star in a -.”

“I’d rather not.”


	4. Feminine Intuition

“So, today’s meeting – Coming Up Short.”

“Very good, sir,” Malcador acknowledged dutifully. “You are a master of wordplay.”

“What?” The Emperor squinted at the paper. “Oh, yes. I didn’t spot that….”

The top leaf of the flip-chart peeled itself back and settled over the easel. Malcador wondered why such ancient technology had been employed rather than the sophisticated hololithic display built into the conference table.

“Anyway, that’s this morning’s theme. How can we address shortfalls? In other words, what are we missing?”

The assembled administrators and generals glanced around at each other. Dorn sat and stared straight ahead, meeting none of the mortals’ eyes for reasons that were entirely separate from arrogance or superiority.

“There are gaps in our revenue generation,” the Emperor continued, “gaping chasms obvious to anyone who can see the entirety of our past and present financial transactions in the time taken to draw a single breath. So, me. But I don’t have all the answers….”

Malcador muttered something under his breath.

“… so that’s why you’re here, gentlemen.”

A pause, during which everyone did their best impressions of statuary.

Eventually, the lone Mechanicus representative raised a mechadendrite.

“My lord Emperor,” the Magos began in the rasping tone common to those who had largely abandoned human speech, “the variables presented may be used to formulate a solution, if it would induce approval in human units present to receive an auditory broadcast.”

“Carry on, then.”

“Referencing the provided resource,” a data-slate was proffered in one claw, “title: _Mechanicus Guide to Squishy Parts and their Uses in Human Entertainment_ , of which one digital copy was downloaded to every unit with security clearance PR-0N-5 – it appears evident that the reception of material featuring term: _Squishy Parts_ and associated derivatives increases the output of emotion ‘happiness’ in 99% of human units of all sectors. Therefore, more squishy parts = more happiness. Conclusion: expansion of the data streams by 40% to include worlds in sectors -.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt you there, Magos,” the Emperor said.

“Acknowledged.” If it was possible for a metallic mask to look disappointed, the tech-priest certainly seemed to manage. “Ceasing verbal communication.”

“Yes, we _could_ target more worlds with more media. Yes, we _could_ put out more content – within a limit, of course, there’s only so much even a primarch’s ass can handle.” He glanced pointedly at Dorn. “But that doesn’t address the real problem. It’s like trying to fix potholes in a road by adding stones to the flat sections.”

“That’s _my_ analogy!” Malcador said.

“And it’s a great one, Malc. We need to fill those potholes instead. And do you know what our problem is? Any ideas?”

Silence reigned once more.

“Chicks!” the Emperor thundered, startling everyone upright (except Dorn). “Look around! It’s a complete sausage-fest in here!”

“Query term: _sausage-fest_? Scan indicates no celebration of edible animal-derived matter pressed into a membrane-bound cylindrical form….”

“We’re all dudes! Men! Beings who define as male – well, apart from you….”

“The purity of the machine transcends human categories. Prior to ascension, this unit was identified as female human unit ‘Trixie’, with alternative heading ‘Jugs’.”

Everyone peered at the bulky, robed form of the adept.

“Well, whatever.” The Emperor shrugged. “Point is, none of us have a feminine perspective on the whole thing. What do women like? What do they want? We need chick thoughts. A vast, cavernous well of ideas we can dive deep down into, sloshing with potential….”

“My lord, please….”

“I know, I know. As long as they identify as female and want to tell me exactly how they feel about f-.”

“My lord….”

“What, Malc?”

“That’s… that’s fine. But how will we get the opinions of women?”

“We ask the Sisters. Because let’s face it; do any of you know how to talk to girls?”

\---

“He’s not going to eat it, is he?” the design consultant whispered, clutching a handful of fabric daisies.

“He might,” Khârn growled, “if you keep showering flowers on him.”  
“But that’s the look….”

“We tear civilisations to the ground and march over their ashes. Blood is our sustenance and war is our existence. _Flowers_ and _juvenile animals_ are not.” The giant marine, imposing even in robes, folded his arms.

“But he won’t hurt it?”

“I don’t know,” Khârn said through clenched teeth, wishing the human would go away. The bite of the Nails was absent, nowadays, but the impulses they left him with would take longer to retreat. He couldn’t quite trust himself not to flatten someone. His primarch seemed to be feeling the same.

“Now look _furious_. Yes, like you’re doing! Ok, a little less. Yeah, not so much like you want to murder the camera. No, _not_ murderous! Happier….” The imagist sighed. “I don’t think it’s working. Five minutes!”

She turned to Khârn, who was a mirror image of Angron’s scowl.

“Are you his agent?”

“I’m his equerry,” Khârn said.

“Is that the same thing?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, can you tell him to emote properly? Like, I want _fierce_ and _dominant_ and _passion_ , but not _rage_.”

“He is Angron, the Eater of Worlds. He has slaughtered countless hordes with his bare hands and his fury can never be slaked.”

“Yeah, but can you get him to do _fierce_?”

\----

“They want you to look less angry,” Khârn informed him.

Angron did, indeed, look less angry – his expression was one of incredulousness instead.

“The Emperor says that women like aggressive men who are also secretly cuddly...”

“I know what he said! Does he think he can tell me how to feel? Hold this.”

The bunny was pushed into Khârn’s hands.

“Why does he think this will be effective?”

“I’m not sure. But these humans are acting on his orders.”

“They have no right to demand anything of me!”

“With respect, you could just _pretend_ you don’t want to massacre everyone for a while. It’ll be easier now the N- now your humours are mostly under your control.”

Angron considered. Khârn let the bunny nibble his robe and rubbed its head, aware that the humans were whispering behind him. He kept his gaze on the bizarre image before him – the primarch of the World Eaters, clad only in a polka-dot loincloth, sitting on a hillock of vibrant green artificial grass with daisies scattered around.

“I’ll talk to them.”

\----

“I really don’t think -.” Khârn began, but the third puppy was placed on his chest anyway. It curled into a fluffy ball between his pectoral muscles and went to sleep.

“Perfect!” the imagist clasped her hands together. “Now, just put your hand there….”

Angron rested his palm firmly on Khârn’s thigh with a familiarity that was cordial rather than intimate.

“You said you’d speak to the humans,” the primarch rumbled in his equerry’s ear. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“Now _smoulder_ at me! That’s it! Now give me _sexy_. _Alluring_. Something that says ‘come hither…’.”

“Truthfully, my lord… no.”


	5. Diplomacy

“You may retain the control of this world,” the Emperor’s representative said, “though you will answer to the Imperium on all matters of governance, and pay tithes of -.”

“Wait a moment,” interrupted the imposing figure of the planet’s ruler, “how would your Imperial vassals know what happens in my lands, being so far from your seat of power – this ‘Terra’ you speak of?”

The use of astropaths was a concept unheard-of here, along with space-faring engines and the Warp. The civilisations were primitive and barbarous, though willing to co-operate so far.

“There would, of course, be personnel stationed here, to report on….”

“To _interfere_ in my _business_ , you mean,” the warlord growled. “Then I shall have none of it.”

“But if you would please consider -.”

“You come here with your flying ships, make fire in my skies and then try to rule my lands? All in the name of this _Emperor_ whom you say I shall never see?”

The situation was getting somewhat tense. Axes were being revealed, and nasty looks sharpened.

“Where is your Emperor? Who is he to claim dominion over the stars?” the warlord stalked forward, the chains on his tough leather armour clanking together. “Show me his form, if he wants to steal my world – let me fight him!”

“He’s not…” the Imperial diplomat would have to admit that the Emperor was either in orbit and could not be fetched immediately, or had moved with his retinue to another part of the crusade.

“Hang on, I’m coming.” The front flap of the tent was thrown open, and a warrior entered, stamping dust from his boots. Imperial representatives fell to their knees. The barbarians stood and stared, nonplussed, at what appeared to them to be a fairly tall but otherwise unremarkable man in golden armour.

“You are this Emperor?” the warlord pointed with the haft of his spear, and those from the Imperium who dared to look up were scandalised beyond belief.

“Yes,” the Emperor said, knowing that his humans wanted him to destroy these men with sword and fury. “And this is my son, a general of my armies.”

All eyes turned to the magnificent cobalt-clad figure who ducked into the tent.

“You and your general both, come to contest me!” the warlord sneered. “What more could you offer? Your servants talk of _governance_ and _stability_ and rules upon rules – what do my people gain? What do I gain?”

“Well,” the Emperor cleared his throat, “you’ve got a thing for blondes, haven’t you?”

\----

“It’s a halt, _then_ left turn.”

They nodded as one, a variety of gene-lines staring back at him from heavyset faces.

“ _Then_ , you take it off, and push-ups. Got that?”

“Confirmed,” the Ultramarine said, speaking for the entire group.

Lucius gave them a final look-over and liked what he saw.

“Good,” he said. “Off you go.”

Arms were crossed in the sign of the aquila, a salute which Lucius returned. They went to take their positions on the darkened platform.

“I hope those chairs are sturdy enough,” Saul said from beside him. Lucius snorted.

“No, really,” the other captain insisted earnestly. “The other ones weren’t.”

“It’s been addressed,” Lucius told him. “These people understand that they’re not dealing with humans.”

“Hm. I notice the shirts fit this time.”

“They do indeed. Though it hardly matters – nobody’s wearing them for long….”

\----

“True, true. My bed-mates are chosen from the fairest among us – and such a colour is rare and highly prized….”

“Well, there you go.” The Emperor smiled benevolently. “These are my terms: hand this planet over to Imperial rule – you retain overall control, with guidance from my administrators – and Roboute here will give you a lap dance.”

Awareness of the delicate diplomatic situation prevented Guilliman from saying anything, but the Emperor clearly heard the mental exclamation of ‘ _Father_!’

He shot his son a look.

“An interesting proposition,” the warlord rumbled, “What will he be wearing?”

“As little as you desire,” the Emperor responded immediately. “I’ll even throw in some head, if that appeals.” He knew that certain colloquialisms didn’t translate, and allowed the relevant images to flood the warlord’s mind in order to get his point across. “And cuddles afterwards.”

“And you say I will keep my lands?”

“Well, we’ll discuss the details later….”

“And your son?”

“I’m afraid you can’t keep _him_.”

Roboute looked only mildly relieved to not be destined as a barbarian’s concubine.

“Good, good…” the warlord stepped forward, arms extended in welcome rather than aggression. “So come, Emperor of Terra – let us speak as equals.”

“Father….”

“Not now, Roboute.”

\----

 “I’m a little concerned,” a Blood Angel admitted, “that I might hurt the humans. What happens if I’m on top of them?”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Call yourself Astartes, if you can’t even hold yourself up?”

“But the humans expect… physical contact of various sorts….”

“They want to you to rub your crotch on them,” the Space Wolf clarified helpfully, and went back to combing his chest hair.

“Exactly. That.”

“Just be gentle,” the Salamander assured him. “You can contain your strength, I’m sure. Could someone help me with this oil?”

“He’s right,” Lucius said, settling into his seat – a canvas chair with his name stencilled across the back. “As long as you’re careful, we’ll have happy humans. Not crushed ones. Now, who wants to go through the routine again?”

There was a noncommittal murmur.

“Let me rephrase that – who wants to tear their face away from the mirror for one second and obey orders given by the most senior officer in this room?”

This time, the response was more in his favour.

\----

“I prefer this kind of compliance,” the Emperor said, and tapped his cigar meditatively. “It’s light on resources and heavy on success. Don’t you think, Roboute?”

“I reserve the right not to comment.”

“Oh come on. You’re still sore about that? Pun not intended. You scored a crucial victory for the Imperium.”

“ _Someone_ scored. I’m certain it wasn’t me.”

“And what did it take, a little discomfort and five minutes of your time? Instead of a month of war. I’m grateful, even if you’re not. You have any idea how many bolt-rounds we just saved?”

“Two hundred and fifty-three thousand, two hundred and eight. Assuming average squad deployment with standard tactics, enemy resistance using non-firearm technology, duration of combat for this landmass – and average rate of fire, hit/miss ratio and supply chain integrity under given atmospheric conditions, terrain and day-night cycle. Minus the use of specialised troops or aerial assault and the possibility of abrupt surrender, assistance from other Astartes legions or Custodians, or involvement of Imperial Guard units equipped with bolt weapons.”

The Emperor exhaled smoke from his aquiline nose and stared levelly at his son.

“See, this might be why you don’t get laid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Space Marine Magic Mike, ladies and gentlemen and others.  
> (Admit it, some of us would totally hire an Astartes stripper if such a thing was available....)


	6. 25th of December M31.001

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to the ghost of Charles Dickens.

“Horus, try to look grumpier! You’re a miser with no holiday spirit or seasonal cheer. And… action!”

Horus rearranged his face appropriately, adjusted his cravat and reached for the ‘knocker’ on the door – a brass facsimile of a pair of breasts. He gasped as it began to change before his eyes. That was one advantage of having the most powerful psyker in the galaxy present: special effects required little to no post-production.

The glowing face made for his crotch with a ghastly moan, then faded away into the ether. Horus bit down a giggle and pressed his lips together. A delicate hand grabbed at his elbow. He spun to see a woman in a lace bonnet, a wicker basket, and nothing else. Her curves wobbled as she ‘shivered’ under the gentle fall of artificial snow.

“Oh, Mr Scrooge! Spare a kindness, please – my poor family have no clothes this Christmas….”

“Away, wretch,” he snarled, casting off her grip. The rear camera dived to focus her looming buttocks as she toppled into a snowdrift. He snorted, shoving a suspiciously-shaped key into a suspiciously-shaped lock, and entered the house.

“Cut!”

Horus came back out, dusting off the shoulders of his coat, and helped his colleague back to her feet. She nodded to him and adjusted her bonnet, then wandered off to accept a robe from the crew.

“That was perfect,” the Emperor declared from the edge of the set. “We’ll use that. Are they finished with Marley yet?”

“Nearly, my lord,” someone said. “Two minutes.”

\----

“I like this,” Fulgrim laid his hands on the side of the crown, “I like it a lot.”

“Well, don’t get used to it.” Malcador glanced up from his coffee. “You’ll be taking it off soon.”

“I can’t keep it on while we…?”

“No.”

“Why is he allowed to wear the halo, then?”

“Fulgrim, that’s real ice. We can’t have it falling on anyone, least of all him.”

“I’m cold enough,” Sanguinius agreed, tugging at his fleece blanket.

Malcador gestured at him with a gloved hand. “You need to get out of that. I know it’s comfortable -.”

“It has sleeves _and_ wing-holes.”

“- but I can’t help feeling that it would ruin the ambiance somewhat.”

“Of this ice-hole?”

“It’s a palace of winter, Sanguinius. He’s Jack Frost, the personification of the season, and you’re a Christmas angel….”

“I know, I know. And I come to tell him and his wife Maria that a shepherd is pregnant with the son of -.”

“No. Beloved Terra, what version of that story did your father tell you?”

The primarch shrugged. “Horus was in his candy cane outfit. I wasn’t really listening.”

“It didn’t feature any pagan spirits,” Fulgrim added, turning from the mirror. “Are you sure these are from the same theological background?”

“Well…” Malcador huffed. “Alright, not really. They’ve got some cultural overlap, being recognised by the same populations, within the remit of a winter festival – but really, the legends are very different: one a nature entity with Celtic roots while the other is part of a monotheistic system with a hierarchy of heavenly beings, and the very _human_ story of the birth of a prophet who….”

He stared into the distance for a moment.

“Emperor’s blood, we’re making pornography! Does it really matter?”

“Well, _I_ think it does,” Fulgrim said archly.

Malcador thought about trying to stare down a primarch, and resigned himself to the fact that only the Emperor could ever do that effectively.

“Stop thinking with your head, then,” he said eventually, “and start thinking with _that_.”

\--

“Well,” Fulgrim abandoned the bed sheet in favour of a towel, wrapping it around himself, “there’s a happy ending. For both of us.”

Sanguinius agreed. “It’ll snow on Christmas Day for sure, and all I had to do was provide you with a little heavenly persuasion….” He splashed water onto his face and chest. “I can’t believe that was the only plot, though.”

“Christmas angel gets laid with Jack Frost in order to secure snowfall? Hm. Like Malcador said, I suppose it doesn’t really need a plot….”

“I love the way you’re inclined to concede an intellectual debate once you’ve had a good fuck,” Sanguinius said, fluffing his wings and reaching for a cloth.

“Can’t be helped. I didn’t get you in the eye, did I? Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” The angel smiled at him. “Thoroughly enjoyable. Although this halo itches.”

“You can take it off now, my dear. Which reminds me -” he scrubbed at the remnants of his costume (mostly silver glitter) “I have to go. I’m due next door for Horus’s thing… would someone hand me that hat?”

\----

Sinking into an armchair, Horus stoked the tiny fire in the grate and rubbed his hands together. He could hear chains clinking in the distance, but didn’t look round just yet. He was _acting_. The Mournival were visible out of the corner of his eye, and Tarik appeared to be having some kind of fit, doubled over with Ezekyle angrily and silently coercing him to stand up straight.

Horus couldn’t take the temptation any more. He signalled for a cut and stood, breaking character.

What he saw almost broke his sanity as well.

“What?” said a muffled voice. “I’m supposed to be the departed spirit of your partner.”

“The only thing that’s departed is your dignity,” Horus said, as soon as he had his voice back. Laughter ran around the set. The Emperor was nowhere to be seen. “What’s with the bandage?”

“It’s in the story. It’s keeping my mouth shut, and I untie it so my jaw falls open to impart to you the true horror of….”

“And then what?”

A sigh. “And then I blow you, and leave through the window.”

“I know,” Horus said, “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Look,” Dorn said, sitting down on a box with a clank of metal. “We can do this like professionals, or not at all.”

“You’re getting paid?” Horus grinned at him, and he frowned. “Lighten up, Rogal. Pun not intended.”

Dorn went to rub a hand across his face and hair, but reconsidered. Pale make-up covered every inch of him, overlaid by fathoms of white bondage-style straps and chains. The cash-boxes and ledgers weighing down Marley’s Ghost in the original tale had been replaced with rather more phallic trinkets; reminders of all the ‘spending’ he had never done, and the ‘assets’ left untapped.

At least, that was the Emperor’s version of things.

\--

“You don’t believe in me,” observed the Ghost, as Horus sat in mock surprise and consternation. He was glad that Scrooge wasn’t a particularly emotive character – portraying abject terror wasn’t his strong suit. He’d have to work on it.

“Humbug, I tell you; humbug!”

Dorn undid the handkerchief, and Horus sank to his knees and hoped he was doing ‘scared human in a nightshirt’ properly.

“You are fettered… why?”

The visage of Dorn trembled and he raised the chain, the links of toys and bottles of lubricant chiming together somehow. “I wear the chain I forged in life…” he said in a deathly whisper, ignoring Horus’s attempt to keep a straight face. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard…. And yours was as long and heavy seven Christmas Eves ago! You have laboured upon it since, and it is long indeed – long and wide and stiff as a -.”

“Wait a minute,” Horus said, staring into the face of the apparition.

“Cut!” the Emperor barked, not without indignation.

“What _is_ a humbug?”

Dorn closed his mouth and looked up. “Actually, I had wondered that as well. Is it some kind of animal?”

“What? I thought it was something stripy.”

 “I’m here!” Fulgrim declared, seating himself on an antique barrel and waving the costume team over. “Don’t worry.”

“Why would he be calling the ghost _stripy_?”

“It’s neither,” the Emperor said. “It’s… like a curse of sorts. An exclamation of falsehood – he’s refusing to believe in the ghost. Anyway, why do you care? Dorn, get down there with him. The line is ‘speak comfort to me, Jacob’ – and then whatever else, and then you get to work. Alright?”

“Alright,” the ghost said solemnly. Horus hitched up his nightshirt.

\--

Dorn wiped his mouth and wound the end of the chain back around his arm. “You will be haunted by three spirits….”

Horus appeared ashen and gravely troubled, although he wanted to make more use of Dorn’s expert tongue. And then perhaps some use of the rest of him (if he could get past the chains). “Are those the spirits of lust that you mentioned?”

 “Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one.”

“Couldn’t I take ‘em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?*” hinted Horus.

“…expect the second at the hour of two,” Dorn continued, with only the slightest pause, “and the third when the last strike of three has ceased to vibrate….” He walked backwards towards the window and Horus followed, still undressed, until the ghost slipped from view with a final moan, the arrangement of clamps on the end of his chain tinkling over the sill.

“Cut!”

Horus belatedly fixed his nightshirt, and looked to his father.

“Excellent,” the Emperor said, “simply excellent. Rogal, you’re a champion cocksucker, you know that?”

“I’ve been informed of such,” Dorn said dryly from under the window.

“And you’re magic on film. But Horus… try not to encourage him so much. You’re meant to be scared and bewildered by the whole affair. You have a _little_ too much enthusiasm.”

“How can you have him on his knees in front of you and _not_ show enthusiasm?” Horus grumbled. “That’s hardly fair.” He wandered off into the set to inspect the bed.

“One thing – isn’t the story supposed to take place over three nights?”

“Well, yes,” the Emperor admitted, “but there’s no plot as such in between, and who’s going to notice? Nobody, that’s who – especially considering you’ve got the Warmaster getting naked every five minutes. Now find some clothes. You’ll probably want to hang around for this.”

\--

The clock struck one. Light flashed up in the room. The curtains of the bed were drawn aside by a hand.

“Wow,” Horus said. “ _Damn_.”

“Cut! Horus, you’re meant to be _acting_!”

“Yes, but…” Horus gestured at the Ghost of Christmas Past. “I mean….”

Fulgrim rolled his eyes and lowered the holly branch. “Well, now you’ve seen me once, can you stick to your lines?”

“Lines? Lines? When do I get to hit that?”

“We talk first,” Fulgrim said, snatching the hem of his short sheer tunic from Horus’s grasping fingers. “I show you your Christmases past -.”

“- those flashback scenes I did earlier? Where Mr and Mrs Fezziwig -?”

“Yes, those.”

“Where I’m in bed with that girl and then I reject her for money and she marries someone else and they -?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“And then I get to stuff you like a Christmas turkey?”

“Horus, _please_.”

\--

The corona of light around the head of the spirit was undimmed, as Horus struggled back to reality in the hold of its arms. He had seen (according to the directions) all the Christmases past in which he failed to put out, diverting himself with material gain, and thus condemned his soul to a life of loneliness.

He surreptitiously angled his hips against the slit in the tunic which ran right up to a glittering metal belt, and got a swat with a holly branch for his troubles.

“Haunt me no longer!” he cried, groping the spirit’s shapely buttock in his anguish.

“Only if you promise to learn your lesson,” the ethereal messenger replied softly, and slipped his tongue into Horus’s mouth.

\--

The cap that would have extinguished the spirit’s luminescence lay unused as they wrestled. Horus had banished his visitor by other means, and collapsed onto the bed in a weariness that was only partially feigned.

“Cut!”

“Right.” Horus rolled over. “That was great. Next ghost, please.”

“In a moment,” the Emperor promised. “Clean-up first. Someone get that branch back. What happened to your nightshirt?”

“I…” Horus sat up and rummaged around. “It’s here. But it’s ripped.”

“You tore my outfit,” Fulgrim retorted. “ _And_ I was going to keep that belt.”

“That was hardly clothing.”

The other primarch made an obscene gesture and stalked off for a shower, _sans_ costume.

The Emperor looked around. “Five minutes, people. Where’s Christmas Present?”

“Nearly ready,” came a growling voice from the dressing-room. “Let me put on my crown.”

“The scenes for this are already done as well,” Horus said. “Orgies, orgies everywhere. With Sigismund playing my nephew. I’m glad I got to watch those – for character development, I mean.”

“Lord Alpharius is still sore about being Tiny Tim, you know,” Abbadon remarked.

“Well, he should have asked for a proper part before they were all taken. And realised the difference between a speaking role and an _action_ role. It’s his fault he got kicked out of the room before Mr and Mrs Cratchit got it on. How is Roboute doing, by the way?”

“He says he still isn’t sure the wig was necessary… and that he nearly strangled himself with Lorgar’s scarf.”

“Surely it’s not in keeping for Bob Cratchit to wear his scarf in bed?”

“Well, their house _is_ meant to be draughty….”

“I’m here!” A flash of green fur-trimmed robe, and the Emperor saw fit to call them back for the start of the next scene.

\--

Clutching at his new nightshirt, Horus opened the door, and was confronted with the sight of a roaring fire, garlands of green, steaming bowls of drink and a pile of food and… other items. He was fairly sure that his expression was as disbelieving as Scrooge’s would have been. He also wished he’d read the text more closely.

“Come in!” exclaimed the Ghost of Christmas Present, holding up his golden Horn of Plenty – at least, it was a ‘horn’ of some sort. “Come in, and know me better!” He was a jolly bearded giant in a crown of holly and a loose green robe, unfastened in such a way that it offered almost no cover at all. Russ was clearly putting his heart and soul into this performance.

“Spirit!” Horus said, doing a little over-acting of his own. “Conduct me where you will! If you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it!”

“Touch my balls!” the spirit declared, and Horus was absolutely sure that the original line had been ‘touch my robe’. But who was he to argue?

\--

“ _Is there a particular flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch_?” Horus dissolved into giggles and the Emperor glared at him. “Come on – how am I supposed to keep a straight face with that sort of line? Especially with him gurning at me.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” Russ said hotly, as a crew member swooped in to fix his hair. “You’re the one hamming it out of proportion.” He whistled his wolves back to his side.

“Aren’t those supposed to be children?” Horus asked. “Ignorance and Want, the products of Scrooge’s despicable vision for society?”

“They are,” Russ said, and turned the wolves around to reveal their names stencilled on paper taped to their sides. “It’s an allegory, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter what species they are.”

“Action!”

“This is ridiculous,” Horus hissed as the cameras rolled once more.

“My life upon this globe is very brief,” Russ stated gravely, gazing deep into the miser’s eyes. “It ends tonight, at midnight.”

“Oh spirit of Christmas Present,” Horus responded, “what would you have me do?”

“Only to see that you must mend your ways, lest Ignorance and Want be a plague on our age.” The wolves padded out of shot on cue, and the crew parted nervously to let them through.

“And you would help me, spirit?” Horus snatched at the front of the robe, noticing that a single tug would pull it completely off. “You must! Before the strike of twelve!”

They leaned closer, on the brink of passion.

“Well, what do you know,” Russ whispered to him. “I think there might be time for a quickie.”

It took every ounce of Horus’s iron will not to burst out laughing and ruin the moment.

\--

Horus sat on the floor of the dilapidated, decaying version of the bedroom, gazing at the covered lump on the bed while existential horror asserted itself. The audience would have seen the gatherings of people, in various states of undress, who mocked him for being both frigid and tight-fisted, and keeping too firm a hold on all of his assets.

“Cut! I like the growing dread Horus, that’s fine.”

“It’s a bit dark for a Christmas story, isn’t it?”

“We left out the bit where Tiny Tim dies,” said a gravelly voice from under the third spectre’s hood. “What more do you want? Anyway, we’ll fuck soon and that’ll lighten the mood.”

“Oh of course,” Horus got up and made his way over to the graveyard set, mist swirling around his feet. He waved a hand at the fateful stone. “Because screwing on your own grave is always a jolly prospect.”

“I didn’t write the script,” the ghost of Christmas Future said firmly.

“Fine, fine.” Horus sat back down, and prepared to ask the spirit whether these were things that _would_ be, or that _might_ be. “I’ll admit, I hadn’t seen the costume before now. I like it.”

Mortarion huffed in a way suggesting that he was unsure whether Horus was joking or not. His fingers played with the few strands of shroud that trailed down past the hood to waist level – the rest of his cadaverous body was bare. The make-up team had done an excellent job disguising a large proportion of his scars; he’d privately described the end result to Horus as ‘freaky, but not enough for them to stop wanking’, which could only be a good thing.

He pointed a bony digit at the stone, and muttered “I’ll have another use for this finger in a second,” making Horus smile for a moment before filming began.

\--

“Spirit!” Horus cried, tight clutching at its robe, “hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for all this intercourse.**”

He could dimly see Mortarion’s face through the shroud, in an incredulous expression of ‘ _really_?’, and mouthed ‘ _that’s what it says_!’ “Why show me this, if I am past all hope?”

The hand trembled as Horus fell to the ground, a desperate grasp on the spectre’s hipbones.

“Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!”

He pressed his cheek to the abs of Christmas Future, and felt a stifled snort through them.

“Tell me, kind spirit!”

There was no reply, but the spirit took his arms and raised him to his feet, only to turn him around and push him against the unyielding face of the tomb. It was real stone, too. Horus’s back stiffened indignantly – he liked Mortarion, but being nailed by the ghoulish representative of his fate was a little much. Was this what was supposed to make him a changed man?

\--

“So much for springing out of bed on Christmas Morning full of the joys of the world,” he said, taking Mortarion’s arm to be helped off the ground. “It’d be touch and go whether I got out of bed at all….”

Mortarion gave him a thumbs-up and went to get changed. Horus eased his battered frame into a chair, feeling as if he’d just waded through a Greenskin horde.

“A truly masterful performance,” Fulgrim said from his own seat, dangling a glass in one slender hand.

“Thankyou, I suppose… where did you get that champagne from?”

“Russ. He’s got popcorn as well, if you’re interested.”

“Fantastic job,” the Emperor said, striding past and slapping the Warmaster warmly on the shoulder. Horus winced. “I could really feel the pathos.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Horus replied. “In that case, I felt it too.”

“Long, hard, veiny pathos,” Fulgrim said, and giggled, which Horus found almost as unsettling as when he’d put his foot in a cold turkey during Russ’s scene. “Didn’t you say you’d already done the morning parts, anyway?”

“I did, I did.” Horus rubbed his eyes, glad of that fact. “I send a lad – it was going to be Tarik, but he couldn’t stop laughing, so Aximand had to do it… to fetch the biggest cock in the shop. As in, an actual cock. ‘ _What, the one as big as me?_ ’ Tarik just couldn’t do that part. He couldn’t manage. What _do_ I train them for?”

“Not that,” Dorn observed softly.

“So, he goes to bring back this enormous dildo, and deliver it to my clerk’s house, and then… I don’t know what happens. I think there is a scene there. And then I go to my nephew’s – Sigismund’s – house and shag Sev- I mean, his wife. And then I wait for Lorgar to come in late, thinking he’ll be fired by his cantankerous old boss… and it ends with me screwing him over the desk, in front of a blazing hearth, in the true spirit of the season.”

“I told you,” the Emperor called from nearby with a smile as wide as his face. “It’s a _masterpiece_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This line is in no way modified from the original.  
> ** This line is modified; 'Scrooge' has been changed to 'Horus'. That's it.


	7. 1st of January M31.002

“It’s the bonnet,” Sevatar growled, shoving a smaller marine out of the way to take his seat. “I don’t mind dresses. But the fucking _bonnet_. I’ll never live it down.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Sigismund said mildly. “It’s authentic historical costume.”

“And the corset! And the _petticoats_! And those little fucking boots with all the laces on! Emperor’s balls! Why…?”

“I thought it was greatly becoming to you….”

Sevatar struck him across the head, which he was used to by now – at least, enough not to immediately reach for his sword. The Night Lord made a disgusted face and tugged the hood of his robe even further forward.

“Come on, Captain. You got to sleep with _Horus_. Not to mention with me.”

“But I had to do it in PETTICOATS!” Sevatar hissed, as loudly as a hiss could go – enough to make heads turn at the other side of the chamber.

“We got those off eventually, didn’t we?”

“Oh, you’re having a fucking laugh. It’s the _principle_ of the thing….”

“Wait, wait.” Sigismund held up a hand. “You have principles?”

“Fuck off.”

“This is momentous indeed! Summon the astropaths! Inform the Lords of Terra! The Emperor must know!”

“The Emperor knows all,” a voice said from beside them, and Sigismund tipped his head back to take in a splendid ensemble of gold and violet armour. Sevatar just snorted.

“Forgive me, my lord… are you in this – what’s being filmed now?”

“I am indeed, First Captain, along with Horus and Erebus.”

“Hey,” Sevatar said, drawing his hood away from his face just a little, “I thought your New Years’ resolution was not to star in any more dirty films?”

“I’m not _starring_ , my dear. I’m in a supporting role.”

“What are you supporting, his dick?”

“Obnoxious little _whore_ ,” Fulgrim said, but not without amusement (and besides, that Nostraman term for ‘whore’ was a lot less negative in its connotations than the Gothic equivalent). “You’ve resolved something similar, I assume? After the business with the petticoats?”

Sevatar let out a curse that made Sigismund blush slightly, though he had no idea what it meant.

“Be careful, Sevatarion. I could have you court-martialled for insulting a primarch like that.”

“And would you see to my punishment yourself, _my lord_?”

“Naturally, I would.”

“Perhaps discipline me a little? Or a lot. Either way… I’d hope to be raw by the end of it.”

“You would be, captain,” the Phoenician said, in a tone that made Sigismund sweat inside his armour. “I promise you that.”

He was summoned away, and Sevatar cackled and cracked his knuckles in an alarming manner – although Sigismund couldn’t tell which concerned him more: that, or the fact that this dysfunctional wreck of an Astartes could apparently flirt effectively with primarchs.

(Of all Sevatar’s ‘gifts’, that could well be the only one Sigismund wished he had.)


	8. Whatever The Weather

“Primarchs from ice worlds… melting for each other,” Malcador read from the data-slate.

“Nice.” The Emperor wandered further along the palisade, looking at the statues. “How long will it be?”

“Undetermined as yet. But the copy is all there, and the covers… one for the Dorn-oriented crowd, and one for the Russ fans.”

The Emperor glanced sharply at him. “But both are on the cover?”

“Oh, of course. It just changes the relative prominence.”

“Let’s see that.”

The Sigillite handed the slate over.

“Excellent, excellent. I like the ¾ angle on Rogal’s buttocks.”

“You have no idea how long it took to get a shot like that. We had to rope in Sigismund… not literally, though. Not like in that other film.”

One of the statues appeared to have spawned a tiny living copy of itself, which emerged from behind the plinth.

“Staring at your own chiselled features again, Horus?” the Emperor said, without turning his head. “I’m both ashamed and proud. As usual.”

“No, father. I knew you were here, and I just came to ask you -.”

“I already know what you’re going to ask. And the answer is still no.”

“But – sir, I’m not asking for the world. I only maintain that Cthonia gets so _cold_ sometimes, with frost and ice covering the walls of the hives, the population huddled in the centre to escape a climate too harsh for -.”

“Stop waxing lyrical. No.”

“But -.”

“Cthonia is not an ice world, Horus. I’ve seen it myself. Almost every world has seasons of some sort; it’s not special, and it’s _not_ the equal of Inwit or Fenris.”

“But -.”

“You just want to get between Dorn and Russ. And – admirable as that may be as a goal – it doesn’t fit with the theme.”

“You know, parts of the world are also very dry and dusty, with arid winds and -.”

“You’re not included in the desert one, either! Nice try, but no. You can join in the next one, whatever that may be….”

\----

“Loosen up,” Russ said, kicking a chunk of ice idly. “We’re the only ones here.”

Dorn stood with folded arms, giving nothing away, and looked over his shoulder at the camera crew. They peered back from a makeshift shelter, bundled into anonymity in thick weatherproof gear. A gentle breeze stirred the snow a little, hinting at a storm to come later from graphite-grey clouds. Someone poked out a mitten-clad hand and rubbed frost off a lens.

“We need a bit more wind, if anything,” someone observed through a muffling layer of scarf. “Make it look dramatic. Where are the fans?”

“Can’t get them up here,” someone else replied. “They’re stuck halfway up the hill. Takes too long to dig them out.”

“I assume they mean mechanical fans,” Dorn observed, and Russ grinned with all his teeth.

“Why? Hoping your legion will turn up for some cheerleading? Or have you got a Rhino needs washing?”

The thought flitted through Dorn’s head, unbidden, of the shoot on Terra. The opposite of this – bright blue sky, heady summer sun, Sisters in bikinis and his own men in the tightest of briefs. Arcs of glittering water and buckets of foam and Sigismund braced against the armour plating of his primarch’s personal transport, wringing the sponge like an enemy’s neck and tilting back so frothy white streams ran down his torso and dampened the contours of the tiny yellow swimsuit….

He knew that Russ knew that that comment was entirely intended to make him think in such a way. But there was no sense in reacting to it. A few flakes of snow settled on his bare shoulders; a couple more made their way into Russ’s braids and he was transfixed by them before they began to melt.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. We don’t have an audience, this time. We’re the only ones here.”

“That’s patently untrue, Leman,” Dorn said quietly but firmly. “There’s an entire film crew.”

“Yes, but they need to be here….”

“The hair and makeup people, and the assistants for various body parts that I don’t care to name.”

“Why not? You’ll be using them soon.”

“And the script consultants, the remembrancers and the caterers.”

“They’re back in the transport; it’s too cold for them out here.”

“Your honour guard, and mine.”

“Nothing they haven’t seen before, eh?”

“And the invited party of Terran nobles.”

Dorn had, in the end, insisted that the human onlookers were removed from the set. Russ had made up something about concerns for their health, in a way that suggested he understood what his fellow primarch wanted. At least for now, it was just them and the technical crew.

\----

“Cut!”

“Magnus,” Sanguinius said gently, inching closer to his brother’s shimmering form, “I know it’s a spectacular view. But… well, it doesn’t need a soliloquy quite as grand as that.”

“There isn’t one in the script,” Azkaellon added, brandishing it in his crimson-gauntleted hand. “At least, I don’t think so… allow me to check….” He peered at a page intently, reading it in seconds, and licked his finger to turn over – or tried to. His glove clanked against his helm and he gave a guilty start.

“Give me that,” Sanguinius ordered, taking the sheaf of paper from him. “You shouldn’t be reading such filth.”

“My lord, surely it’s my duty as your praetorian to conduct a prior inspection of all activities that require your participation? For your safety, of course, and the honour of the Legion….”

“I’m quite safe, commander. I doubt it would be of any benefit to you to ‘inspect’ this material.”

“But I’m here seeing it filmed…. And then watching it when it’s released. Perhaps. I mean, if that’s permitted….”

His primarch frowned at him, and he scuffed a boot into the golden sand.

“Azkaellon, go and patrol the perimeter. By which I mean run around those dunes until I tell you we’re finished. And leave those magnoculars with the crew – that’s an order.”

If it was possible for a military-bred giant in power armour to slouch, that was what Azkaellon did. He trudged off through the desert, and nobody dared to get in his way.

“At least you can prevent your sons from witnessing what you’re up to,” Magnus commented, commandeering the script and flicking through it.

“Is that not possible for you, brother?”

“Theoretically, it is. I’m more than powerful enough to form barriers that psychic forces cannot penetrate – I could blanket this world and all its moons in a fog of obfuscation that no living mind, save for the Emperor Himself, could hope to overcome….”

“Yes?”

“…but I usually don’t bother. Too much effort.” He tucked the script under his arm and turned to the human crew member trying in vain to reach his hair with a comb. “Is the worm ready?”

“It is, my lord Magnus. Now with all respect, if you could just bend down a little….”

“Where _did_ Father find that thing?” Sanguinius asked, cocking a thumb at the enormous tubular form of the beast, kept comfortable under the shade of a canopy. A squad of Thousand Sons were attempting to brush its many concentric rings of teeth. It heaved and writhed against their efforts, and the torso of one disappeared into its gaping maw, only to emerge unscathed and brandishing a long stringy remnant of a meat-based lunch. “I know it’s tame, but – couldn’t we just do it with special effects? Is there any reason?”

“There’s an old Prosperan saying: ‘if you have a giant Mongolian Death Worm, then you may as well make use of it, if only to save on certain aspects of the budget’.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“No, not really. I don’t know why it’s there. You’re the one that has to interact with it, anyway.”

“Interact, Magnus? That’s a strange way of saying ‘be eaten by’.”

“Don’t look so upset. It barely grabs you. Then you get tossed across the dunes, and voila.”

“I’ll lose a ton of feathers,” Sanguinius said glumly, “I know I will.”

“No more than you’ll lose when we finally get down to business.”

“Is that a promise, _shaman_?”

\----

“Did I tell you about the man who got a frostbitten penis?” Russ said, right in Dorn’s ear. The other primarch tipped his head subtly – he’d had a little too much close contact with Russ for now, although ‘personal space’ was a concept that the wolves seemed unable or unwilling to understand.

“No, Leman, you didn’t.”

“It was in a terrible storm; he stayed out too long. Came to the sisters and myself for healing. There was nothing we could do, really. We told him it would fall off – and for all I know, it did!” Russ chuckled and patted his brother’s thigh.

Dorn added ‘sense of humour’ to the list of concepts that obviously differed on Fenris.

“Not saying it’ll happen to us, mind. We’re made of tougher stuff. Looks fine so far.”

“Leman, could you… could you not _shake_ it like that?”

Russ complied, and Dorn unclenched several sets of muscles. It would be rude to inch away along the bench, and there was little room in the transport anyway. The humans took up the rest of the space, maintaining a distance that was partly respectful and partly understandable, given their state of undress.

Dipping a cloth in a basin of hot water, dreaming of the shower he’d have when back on the _Phalanx_ , Dorn made an effort to scrub off various blends of fluids. Several of the crew had offered to do this for him. Unlike Russ, he had declined, and thus was spared the attentions of a gang of fluttering humans of all genders.

“Lord Russ, let me just get that spot for you….”

“Right you are,” Russ said happily, and stretched out as best as he was able. One of his pet wolves (did he _really_ have to bring those slobbering beasts with him? There was hardly space) followed suit, rolling over with legs in the air and being subsequently disappointed by the lack of attention paid to her glorious belly. Everyone was focusing on Russ. She sulked.

A huddled figure wrenched open the small door of the transport, declared ‘five minutes!’ in a voice stifled by at least three layers of clothing, and left.

“Round two!” Russ clapped his hands together and gently disengaged from the humans. “Come on, Rogal!” He slammed the exit controls and as the ramp lowered with a cracking of iced-over joints, strode out into the blowing snow – still entirely naked.

Dorn banished the thoughts of hot baths and fluffy towels, and followed.

\----

Azkaellon joined the ‘scouting party’ on the ‘perimeter’ – far enough away that the glassy shudders of mirages made it all but impossible to see what was happening around the filming location.

“My lords,” he said, but his courteous salute was waved away.

“Come and sit down,” Horus said, patting the rug with one hand and opening a cooler with the other. “Have a drink.”

Azkaellon flopped down beside the two primarchs, Raldoron, and the twins, and accepted the bottle from Horus’s hand. It was a translucent whitish glass with a cork stopper, and a dark brown liquid sloshed inside. Removing his helmet, he closed his eyes against the blinding sun and took a long draught.

“A type of iced tea, from Colchis,” Lorgar said. Azkaellon nodded; he rather liked it. “It has mildly hallucinogenic properties… but only if you’re in a cold environment, under a new moon.”

“Why didn’t you tell _me_ that before I drank it?” Horus said.

Lorgar shrugged. “I didn’t think it was relevant. Besides, you’re an endless source of entertainment when you’re high.”

“I’d have your head for that statement, Aurelian. Especially in front of the men.”

“Sorry, did you say that you’d give me head?” Lorgar smirked and winked at Horus, who groaned.

“How is this cooler staying cool?” Azkaellon said after a moment. “It’s just an ammunition crate full of packing foam.”

“Psychic ability, brother,” Raldoron told him. The First Captain lay on his front facing up the dune, head resting on arms, a hollow dug out in the sand under the rug for the curve of his breastplate. “That is to say, the box itself doesn’t have any special gifts. It’s those two, and Lord Aurelian.”

“Cheers,” Ahzek and Ohrmuzd said in unison, lifting their drinks.

Horus narrowed his eyes at his brother.

“You’ve increased greatly in strength, Lorgar. I remember you crying into Magnus’s couch because you couldn’t turn the pages of your own book without hands….”

“Horus!” Lorgar hissed. “ _Not in front of the men._ But yes, my powers have grown, as I undertake more of Father’s ‘projects’. It’s as if the rampant sexual conquests are making me stronger each time.”

“Correlation doesn’t equal causation,” Ohrmuzd said, and belched contentedly. Lorgar cuffed him around the head.

“You’re still sore about being left out of this one, my lord?” Ahzek guessed, needing precisely none of his Warp-gifted potency to do so.

“I am. I _told_ him Colchis has deserts, lots of them! Practically a desert world!”

“If you don’t count all the settlements, oceans and mountains,” Horus added. “What? That’s what he said, isn’t it? If you get to claim Colchis as a desert world, I get to claim Cthonia as an ice world – and he believes neither of us.” A defeated sigh. “ _But_ , I have talked to Fulgrim, and he said he’d talk to Vulkan, because Nocturne _is_ a desert planet. Volcanic, certainly, but still a desert by anyone’s estimation. _And_ the long winters almost make it an ice world, too, I suppose….”

“Is this a plot for you two to get your hands on Vulkan?” Raldoron asked.

“Well done, First Captain. It is. And if we can manage that… I think we can manage a collaboration of all the featured worlds and their associated primarchs, don’t you?”

“Wait, that’s…” Azkaellon put his drink in the sand to count on his hands. “Yourself, Lord Sanguinius, Aurelian, Vulkan, Magnus, Russ, Dorn…. A septa- septem- seven-some.”

“Indeed.”

“…do you think our Blessed Emperor will accept the wisdom of your idea, oh Warmaster?” Ahzek inquired.

“I don’t know,” Horus admitted, “but I’m hoping he will see sense. I’m fed up of being banished to the sidelines.”

The cry of the Mongolian Death Worm echoed across the dunes, and those assembled reflected on what they could be missing.


	9. 14th of February M31.002

Dorn had never relied on the assumption that a simple gaze could convey large amounts of meaningful information; it was a shaky concept at best, and prone to all sorts of failure and misunderstanding. If he had something to communicate, he would do so in other ways. No room for perilous ambiguity.

There was no ambiguity at all in the way Sigismund was looking at him right now. Plenty of peril, though.

He couldn’t claim to be surprised by the intensity of the First Captain’s expression. Astartes were made to be fanatics, conditioned for devotion. Their loyalty burned to the last and there was no more unbreakable oath than that of a warrior to their commander. Point them in the direction of their goal and they would reach it or die trying.

(He wondered what universal force had seen fit to point Sigismund in the direction of his crotch.)

With a tenderness born of so many years of being careful (precise words, cautious touches; no room for misinterpretation that could lead to misdemeanour that could lead to his hearts being disturbed behind their protective shield) he lowered his first in command to the sheets. Nothing should prompt him to handle one of his men so gently, but he _had to_. Here was someone unspeakably precious, someone he wanted to hold and protect and care for with a diligence that surpassed even a primarch’s obligations.

“I love your eyes,” he says quietly, and it’s true. “The way you look at me makes me want to….”

The distance between them closed too much for words and he wrapped a hand around the back of Sigismund’s head to better meet his lips. Mindful of his weight, he shifted to rest on one arm, dragging his hips forward over Sigismund’s reclining form. A little more heat surfaced in their kiss, and a little more, and with an eager tongue slipped into his mouth he could practically taste the desire….

“Yeah! Go Rogal!”

He snapped his head upright and pulled Sigismund close instinctively; the First Captain’s protests at this were nothing to do with being crushed against his chest.

“Horus!” Malcador snapped, surging out of his seat. “Who let you on the set?!”

“Everybody!” Horus declared defensively. “I’m the Warmaster.”

The Sigillite gestured at the bed, where Dorn (an ageing professor) and Sigismund (his student, who was _also_ stood up on Valentine’s Day and _coincidentally_ ended up alone at the same restaurant as his till-then unrequited academic crush) were still frozen in outrage.

“You’re ruining the moment!”

“It’ll be fine,” Horus said, and looked for a place to sit down, with humans bowing and scraping at his every turn. “Carry on.”

Dorn just stared at him.

“You can bang your First Captain with me sitting here, can’t you? Not like it’s the first time you’ve done that….”

Sigismund glanced from his primarch to the Warmaster and back again.

“What? I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

Malcador groaned and went to get more coffee; a highly strategic move designed to avoid having to deal with that.

“Let’s make one thing clear, Horus,” Dorn said, tugging his pants back up and kneeling on the bed. “If you _must_ sit there and watch us… making this production, then you do so in _silence_. And I mean silence. If I hear a _single_ sound from you, then not only will I deny you the entertainment of seeing me ‘bang’ Sigismund, but I will treat you as the brother and equal that you are, and personally kick your illustrious backside off the set. And lock the door. And employ someone to stand beside you, watching the scene taking place and describing it to you in minute detail.”

“You wouldn’t be so cruel,” Horus replied.

“I would,” Dorn said, aware that Sigismund was squirming a little in response to his sudden assertive manner. “It’s entirely justifiable. Now let’s reset to the beginning of the bedroom part – and Horus, make me forget that you’re there, or else.”

Horus crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap and shut his mouth.

\----

“It’s too long,” the Emperor said, looking down at it. “Far too long.”

“But father…” Lorgar protested.

“I don’t think anyone could take it,” He weighed it in his hand, and shook his head. “Even if we cut it down.”

“Don’t make me do that. It’s a work of art! And it’s _mine_.”

“Sometimes, Lorgar, you have to make sacrifices,” the Emperor replied firmly. He patted the spine of the book. “There’s no way we can fit all this into one film, not if we want to keep people interested between the sex parts. So, either you adapt it, or….”

“Or you’ll find some _other_ book to capitalise on,” Lorgar finished. He turned his face away and pouted at the corner of the room. “One of Lion’s, I’d imagine. Or one of Roboute’s….”

“Lorgar, please. You’re suggesting I turn that Codex thingy he’s working on into a porno? I… actually, now I think about it….”

“You said it could be _my_ book….”

“I know, I know. So, you give me a decent script, and I’ll get you a crew. Deal?”

“Who’s going to ask the leading men if they want to be involved?”

The Emperor took his son’s hand with a smile. “You.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorgar's book is a long-winded, X-rated adult-cast rework of Little Red Riding Hood... I'll leave it to you to guess who'll be playing the Big Bad Wolf.


	10. 31st of October M31.002

“This time, you’re in petticoats!”

“It’s a nightdress, Sev.” Sigismund adjusted the edge, pulling it to try and cover his backside. “There’s a distinct difference.”

“Doesn’t matter!” Sevatar crowed, unable to hide his joy. “It’s frilly. Now get on that bed and let me bite your d-.”

“My NECK. You’re meant to bite my NECK.”

“Alright, calm down. I must have misheard. I suppose the fun doesn’t start until later.”

“You’re damn right it doesn’t,” Sigismund said, climbing into the enormous bed. “You look like a fool, anyway.”

“Excuse me. I look dashing and mysterious.” Sevatar stood to admire his reflection – something that would have to be edited out in post – and smoothed down his cape. “Any swooning Gothic heroine would be proud to fling open her shutters and invite me over the sash. So we could bang with a thunderstorm in the background. It’s classic horror.”

“The only classic horror is your cravat,” Sigismund argued. “And I’m not a swooning Gothic heroine. I tried to have the script changed so I just jumped out of bed and punched you in your smug undead face, but apparently that’s not in keeping with the genre. What? Why are you grinning at me like that?”

“Nothing. I’m just looking forward to getting under those frills.”

\--

Raldoron plucked at his nightdress. “I still have doubts, my lord.”

“I know,” Sanguinius rubbed his shoulder. “But this is the way the Emperor wills it.”

“I don’t mind the… the content. I’m quite looking forward to that.” He reddened slightly. “But we’re the ones with – with the actual fangs. That’s what these monsters are meant to have?”

“They are indeed.”

“And they drink blood, and we – well, we….”

“I know. But shh. We’ll let my brother have his fame, alright? The less said about our blood habits, the better.”

He stroked Raldoron’s hair, and Raldoron agreed.

“Besides, they look more like vampires than we do, I’m told.”

“Thanks for that, Lord Sanguinius.” Branne sat heavily down on the inside of the windowsill, surprising Raldoron with his entrance.

“No offence intended, little raven,” Sanguinius said with a smile, which Branne returned. “But your appearance is more akin to the deathly creatures of the night.”

“No offence taken, my lord. But you might want to have a word with our primarch about that.”

\--

“The moon’s in the right position. Release the bats!”

They tumbled out of the hidden door and flopped to the floor in a pile, shrieking at each other.

“What are you doing?!” Horus strode over, with Malcador following, and kicked the pile. “You’re meant to fly off across the face of the moon!”

“Well, excuse me Warmaster,” the topmost bat said. “Maybe it’s difficult for all of us to get out at the same time!”

“I’ll tolerate no disobedience from you, Sahaal.”

“And how,” interrupted another, “are we meant to get the jump-packs lit without roasting each other’s balls off?”

“You’ll find a way, I’m sure.” Horus dragged the bat-costumed marines to their feet one by one and shoved them back into their compartment. “Now take 2. And don’t mess it up this time – otherwise none of you will get to see Sigismund’s ass.”

There was a collective and un-bat-like groan from behind the door.

***

“That’s the thing,” Lorgar muttered, undoing Roboute’s trousers with the fluid ease of someone who’d practised the motion many, many times. Not necessarily on Roboute, though. Perhaps on somebody else. Or in his sleep. “Nobody’s going to believe that you, of all people, would be failing a class.”

“Nobody’s going to believe you need glasses, either.”

Lorgar stood up, chest to chest, and Roboute tapped the frames to emphasise his point. “It’s the suspension of disbelief. The illusion of the narrative. Details matter little, when the story is spun skilfully enough to captivate the reader….”

“Or if you’ve got your cock out,” Lorgar finished decisively – and loudly. They had to call a cut. Roboute fastened his trousers again. “I’m just saying; they can’t expect to characterise us so inconsistently and get away with it. It’s criminal.”

“I hardly think the characterisation is the most important…”

“It is! They have to believe, brother,” the sanctimonious tone was creeping in again, and Roboute felt the first pricklings of the all-too-common urge to slap his sibling. “For the time, they have to believe. What, I suddenly decide to go down on you to ‘motivate’ you? How does that make sense? I’m in the position of power. There’s no reason for me to switch like that. And you go from caring so little about the subject that you’d gladly fail to wanting to see me privately… to being the perfect student.”

“Well, what else would you have happen?” Roboute asked wearily – and regretted it.

\--

“Lie down here.”

Without specific directions, he positioned himself across Lorgar’s lap in a way that would hopefully remain comfortable for the duration. Lorgar’s hands (a little too familiar, if he was honest) shifted him further along, away from the 90-degree angle of back and legs, bringing his backside higher up and jamming his hips against the top of Lorgar’s thigh.

“Good.”

After a few gentle strokes, easily ignored, it was a shock to have his clothing roughly pulled away. Outer layer and underwear both, dispensed with in half a second.

The surprise faded and he sighed a little, resting his chin on his arms. If that was how Lorgar wanted to play the part, then so be it. The hand on his buttock was if anything mildly distracting.

“Such an obedient boy,” Lorgar purred, removing his redundant glasses in a seductive manner (likely just to prove it could be done). “I knew you had it in you.”

Roboute was fully aware that his brother had written the script personally. In the last twenty minutes or so.

“Now, perhaps you’ll learn your lesson….” He took a handful and squeezed, making Roboute yelp. “That’s right – you’ll make such pretty noises for me.”

“That was hardly a pretty noise,” Roboute whispered, inaudible to the cameras.

Lorgar only smirked. “I’ll have you begging, my boy….” And with that, the first slap – not hard, but enough to make his backside quiver and produce a good sound. “Ready?”

Surely that question should have come first, but Roboute wasn’t about to take artistic control of this endeavour. He’d agreed to one ridiculous plot twist already. All he had to do was lie still and produce responses in the right places; something he was confident was within his capabilities.

The second slap landed, on the other cheek. He was far from begging for mercy. It didn’t even hurt – this was an aesthetic spanking, not a genuine one (and here he wondered whether ‘aesthetic spanking’ would enter into the wider lexicon: to waste such a term seemed a shame). Giving the occasional squirm or sigh, he plotted out a couple of speeches and the next chapter of his autobiography.

Lorgar grabbed his hair and jerked his head back rather rudely.

“Are you learning yet, boy?” he snarled in a suitably dominant manner.

“Please sir… yes sir….” Roboute hoped he sounded contrite and vaguely aroused. He wriggled against Lorgar’s hold, until his scalp was released.

“You know, I’m not convinced.” That wasn’t in the script. “I think you need a little more… motivation.”

“What?” Roboute asked – and then a slap landed so hard that it jolted him forward and he couldn’t help but squeak in surprise.

“How many do you think it will take?” Lorgar said, nonchalantly. “Ten? Twenty?”

He sounded far too pleased. His other arm descended onto Roboute’s back, effectively countering any struggles. “How about you count for me? Hmm?”

“Alright,” Roboute said, remembering that he was acting and gaining back a little composure. It had surprised him; that was all. The small sting of pain and the tingling that accompanied it were novel and interesting, and some response was inevitable. He cleared his throat for the first. “One.”

Lorgar waited in between, fingers gently caressing his heated skin. Roboute wished he’d get on with it. Tension was something he could do without. “Two.”

“Good boy. You’re getting the hang of this.”

“Three…. Four. Five. Six.”

“Six of the best,” Lorgar murmured, “but I think I’m just warming you up.” He bent close to Roboute’s ear and hissed “Are you hard yet?”

Roboute huffed in indignation. “A little. It’s a perfectly understandable reaction to a sexually charged situation.”

“Charged? Well, you said it, not me.” Lorgar ignored his eye-roll and got him to spit out “Seven.”

Once they reached ten, though his voice was still steady and his backside hardly troubled, Roboute couldn’t deny that he was significantly distracted. More pertinently, it was getting harder and harder to resist rubbing himself against Lorgar’s thigh, just for a little friction.

“I think you’re enjoying this far too much, boy….”

“Also an accusation which could be made against you,” Roboute countered, aware that he was once again turning it into an argument. With Lorgar, that was always the case – even, it seemed, when he was partly dressed and writhing on the other’s lap.

“No, this is a very serious business.” For all he tried to sound earnest, there was no concealing the smile in Lorgar’s voice. “I’m educating you.”

“Then get on with it,” Roboute ordered, and was immediately subject to eleven, twelve and thirteen in quick succession, followed by three more – or four. Regrettably, impossibly, he’d lost count.

“What a shame,” Lorgar purred, as he dropped a little decorum in order to pant slightly, getting his breath back. “We’ll have to start from the beginning.”

“You’ll do no such thing!”

“Who’s making the rules here?” His tone was mocking, with an undertone of petulance that Roboute disliked intensely. He wasn’t used to making the rules, after all, and so took every chance he got to an uncivilised extreme. That was Roboute’s opinion, anyway. “I think you’ll find it’s me. And I think that you’d benefit from it… as you already seem to be.” His hand strayed, between the cheeks, down to press lightly on a spot that made Roboute jump and whine quietly. “You love it, don’t you? Being put over my lap and punished, like the naughty boy you are….”

“You’re confusing me with Dorn,” Roboute defended, trying to maintain at least some dignity.

“Oh, but you and he are so very alike. Controlled, concealed, slaves to protocol and ever so stiff… until someone breaks you down. And then you can’t get enough. You want to beg, to grovel, to worship and be rewarded handsomely for it. And what’s the greatest prize? A good seeing-to, as they say – moaning and writhing for your master as he spears you on his -.”

“I hate to interrupt your fantasy,” Roboute said through gritted teeth, “but you’re wrong.”

“You don’t want a few more, then?” He circled his fingertip, slowly, maddeningly.

“…I never made that claim.”

Lorgar just laughed, and gave him another few. “I won’t ask you to count again.”

That was a blessing, since Roboute was a little beyond the point where he could reasonably keep track of numbers. He groaned instead, and squirmed under Lorgar’s hands.

“Good boy,” Lorgar whispered. He was alternating now between slapping and stroking, and the occasional grope of reddened flesh. “Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?”

No reply was forthcoming. He wrapped his arm around Roboute’s neck and bent him backwards, digging his nails in with the other hand.

“Have you learned, or do I need to punish you some more?”

“Please sir…” it was almost inaudible, and Lorgar was pleased to see that he was pink in the face as well, flushed and trembling ever so slightly, “please… I’ve learned.” Still acting – but only just.

“Excellent.” Lorgar dropped him back down, and gave him another swift slap that made him cry out. “Cut!”

They did, much to Roboute’s apparent bewilderment.

“I thought that was a good place to end it,” Lorgar said with a shrug, rolling his brother off his lap. Roboute landed on the floor with a thud, and sat there for a moment. “Dramatic tension, you see.”

“Did you -.” Roboute’s voice wasn’t as strong as usual, and he took a second to steady it. “Did you ever have any intention of actually getting me off?”

“If you come to my room later,” Lorgar said, taking the only copy of the script and tucking it beneath his arm, “you can find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vampires are scary, but what's even more frightening is Lorgar being allowed creative control over a script.


End file.
